


Three Kings

by TeasTakingOver



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood, Gen, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Iron Dad, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Precious Peter Parker, Prostitution, Protective Tony Stark, Serial Killers, peter whump, what do you expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 07:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeasTakingOver/pseuds/TeasTakingOver
Summary: “Look at Spider Man helping the lowest of the low.”Peter shakes his head. “A working woman is more deserving than most of the scum I’ve come across on these streets.” He assures her.The next morning the woman is found dead similar to the last.Spider Man was known to stop the petty criminals of Queens. A hero to his neighborhood, he felt responsible for making sure the little guys are safe. But ATM robberies weren't the worst crimes that appeared on these streets.As the bodies begin to pile and Tony begins to worry, Peter Parker finds himself in a game of cat and mouse with a serial killer he finds he understands far too well.





	Three Kings

**Author's Note:**

> I came back from Infinity War last night and reality means nothing to me now. 
> 
> I know this chapter sucks but I'm so bad at beginnings. Give me a chance though. This is my first work in this fandom with other WIPs in line. All whumpage, go figure. 
> 
> AUTHOR WARNING  
> The full extent of my plans isn't in the tags yet because I'm halfway through writing this story and there are things I don't know if I'm going to include. Trust me when I say that this is going to go to some dark places so if there's anything I need to warn you about I'll put warnings at the beginning of each chapter and change the tags.

The snap of a camera marked the beginning of a new era in Queens. One that would cast a shadow over the men and women unprotected by police. It covered the supposed low lives of New York in fear, those undeserving of personal privacy and yet enlightening the world of their secrets with the flash of a photo. Their pain. Their woes unseen by most until written in blood on a newspaper article. 

One picture turned to two, and two to ten. And so on and so on. Reporters flock like vultures ready to pick apart the crime scene with unforgiving claws. They caw and crow but they are only background noise upon young Peter Parker’s ears. He stands among them as a regular civilian, one only meant to pass by and see what the crowd was about on his way to the subway. Their questions go unanswered as the police tape is hung from building to building, criss-crossed. Men in uniform hold reporters back as they desperately take notes on the scene before them. 

Peter recognized this street corner and anguish curled in his throat, choking him. He remembered the broken street sign hanging by a single bolt. He was here just last night. She was here, just last night. Peter thought he could have the benefit of the doubt. It CAN’T be her, he begged silently. He saw her walk off, her heels clicking softly. But his thoughts were drowned out by his cursed enhanced hearing when a positive ID was made. As soon as one officer whispered to the other the name of the victim Peter felt his mind shut down for a second. 

No no no, no. She was _here_. She wasn’t supposed to be here but she was. She was safe. Peter made sure of it. He remembered it far too vividly. Going on patrol last night, staying out far too late. He remembered hearing her yell for help as Spidey swung to her rescue. A creep was tugging at her black dress, she was fighting back. God, was she a fighter. In her eyes were tears but she did not cower. 

_“Hey!” Peter had yelled, his usual charismatic “superhero” voice was ruled by anger. One thing he could never get used to on these streets were the attempted assaults on women and kids. Spidey wasted no time webbing the guy up, sticking him on a dumpster with his face pressed into the grime. He screamed insults slurred and weighed down with vodka._

_“Didn’t your mom ever teach you to keep your hands to yourself? No means no!” Peter retorted, ignoring the man’s curses. Believe him, he wanted to do so much more than scold the man. Sick men like him probably did not deserve Peter’s merciful nature but he couldn’t gain a reputation for beating up criminals senselessly. The web will hold him there safely for two hours, and in that time Peter will call the police and let them know what happened so the man will be taken care of properly._

_The woman, now safe from harm but sporting a deep purple bruise on her jaw, smoothed out her dress. “Look at Spider-Man, helping out the lowest of the low.” She muttered. It sounded like she was joking about it. Peter shakes his head. “A working woman is more deserving than most of the scum I’ve come across on these streets.” He assures her. Of course he would help anyone._

_Peter tilted his head gesturing to the pervert. “Trust me, I just strung up the lowest of the low on a dumpster. But seriously, are you okay? Did he give you that bruise?”_

_Her slender fingers gently ran over the injury with long, acrylic nails. She looked down, ashamed. “Well I didn’t get it at my day job.” She quipped. Peter held back a sympathetic hum. The thought of her being a sex worker was on the back of his mind seeing the short dress and fishnets but he didn't want to bring it up. He didn't want to be a judge of any kind. She knew that he knew though. She held herself tight against the cold air, not even having a sweater. “He didn’t want to pay for the extra benefits, and I have a policy against men too wasted to get their own shoes off.” She explained._

_“Ah,” Peter nodded. “I respect that.” He truly did. She was a woman who was desperate, but not a woman without worth. “Come on, you don’t have to be here. I’ll call the cops and he’ll go to jail. We don’t have to tell them who you are.” The cops of Queens probably won’t treat her too sincerely and any business she had would decline dramatically._

_It was now her turn to tilt her head. “You’re not going to lecture me about how I don’t have to work on the streets? Or say that I should’ve been more prepared in case something like this happened?” She prompted him. "That's what everybody else says."_

_Peter hoped she could see his gentle smile through the mask. “I imagine this wasn’t your first choice of work.” Was all he offered. She returned her own smile, grateful. “Thank you.”_

_Their quiet moment of understanding was broken by the drunken man’s babbling of “I’ll kill you bitch, I swear I’ll kill you both.” It goes without saying that Peter wanted to break the man’s nose at this point. “Can I walk you home? It hasn't exactly been safe out here. Especially for...” He asked instead. With his hand raised, she took it but only to pull him closer and land a soft kiss on his cheek. Peter’s cheeks went redder than his own suit as she leaned back with lipstick slightly smudged._

_“For prostitutes? Thank you, Spider Man but I think I’ll be okay.” She hummed. “I can’t have anybody thinking I’ve teamed up with the crime-fighters after all. It’s just bad for business.” There it was, the emotional disconnect these women force upon themselves. The feelings of helplessness and vulnerability they hide behind nice eyeliner and fake bravery. "Don't worry though, my place isn't too far from here."_

_Peter said nothing as she picked up her purse, which was thrown to the side during the initial struggle. He wanted to pity her. This was no life to live, but reality was harsh._

_She made sure everything was still in it before addressing him again, holding up her wallet for him to see. Inside, right next to her ID, was a small photo, wrinkled and worn even though the date on the bottom verified it was only taken within the last year._

_It was a little boy with blonde hair. In his arms was an Iron Man plushie and he was smiling so wide his eyes scrunched. The woman smiled fondly as she looked at the toddler in the photo. “That's my son.” She softly said. “Iron Man used to be his biggest obsession. I can’t tell you how many times he jumped off the table or couch pretending to fly like him.”_

_A sense of nostalgia came at the memory of Peter doing the same when he was a kid, building fake thrusters out of LEGOs and annoying May with his own obsession of his idol. “Every kid has a superhero stage, I guess.” He said. The woman, Melissa as the ID told him, nodded._

_She sighed heavily. “Lately though he’s had a new obsession. Let’s just say, he wanted a pet tarantula ever since he saw videos of you on Youtube. I can’t stand creepy and crawly things but after tonight, maybe they aren’t so bad.”_

_“I’ll take that as a compliment ma'am.”_

_He had no reason to believe this night was like any other. Or how horribly it would end._

_In the alleyway between a laundromat and a convenience store was the last time anyone saw Melissa alive, save for the monster who wrapped his hands around her throat to see that life fade from her eyes. Peter watched from the ground as she walked away, her heels clicking softly._

_Peter watched from a rooftop as beat officers came to pick up their latest assailant. Handcuffs snapped in place and Peter was finally able to go home knowing that man would never harm Melissa or another woman again._

_Only, that man wasn’t the only one itching to harm a woman that night._

The next morning Peter watched from the outside as a camera flashed and shuddered again and he had to face reality once more. The a short row of dumpsters were grayed with age and moldy. The concrete ground was littered with soda bottles and beer cans. In the light of sunrise, it all looked dull and blurry. Except for the pristine white cloth that laid in the center of the path tucking the latest victim to rest. She laid with the trash. Her still chest will no longer rise with the sun, will no longer hold a heart that beats solely for a son. She will no longer know the warmth of embracing either anymore. 

She will become nothing more than the picture for a headline, Peter knows. 

Because that’s what always happens. For the past month, that’s all this city has ever offered these women. Recognition for a Jane Doe death for a few days and then it’s back to the same grind of sports and weak entertainment columns. Peter wondered if they will even include her name. LOCAL PROSTITUTE, it will probably say. STREET WORKERS DYING ON THE JOB, he imagined the article now. THIRD VICTIM FOUND; HOOKERS BEWARE. 

He didn’t know what was more sickening, the reporters’ dehumanization of yet another victim or the memory Peter held of helping this woman not even twelve hours ago. She was okay, Peter reasoned. I thought I saved her, he desperately thought. He felt like crying knowing he could have stopped this senseless murder if only he had stayed a bit longer. 

Peter closed his eyes and tried to remember the woman beneath the sheet. But all he could see was the picture of her son, smiling so happily with a plushie of his past favorite hero. Peter’s heart crushed knowing the kid would never know his current favorite hero could have saved his mother. The kid will probably go into foster care, Peter realized. Another kid who lost his parent. 

The school day began suddenly and his classes passed by in blurs. Peter absently traced over notes in his physics class thinking about not only this latest murder, but the ones before it. Three women strangled and found only hours after the fact. The killer didn’t even want to hide the bodies or himself. His MO fit perfectly each time. 

Strangles a sex worker, leaves their bodies where they fall, and walks away. He spends no time with the bodies, which is weird. Serial killers will take trophies but everything stays the same. The only thing he takes is the lives of women he deems worthy of death. Their clothes are in tact and he doesn’t touch them aside from their crushed necks. It’s like he just… wants them dead. He doesn’t take them, he doesn’t rape them, he doesn’t torment them. They’re just decorations and tallies on his kill list. 

The police hasn’t made a statement about the murders except for the head detective stating “we’re entertaining the idea that the past few murders of these women may have been caused by one individual.” Yeah, no shit Sherlock. 

“We will investigate further once more information comes to light.” 

Ned scoffed at the article the two read in the lunchroom over his laptop. “Congrats on doing the bare minimum, my dude.” He shook his head. Peter picked at his thumb nail and sighed. 

“I could’ve done more.” Thinking back, maybe he did the bare minimum as well. 

“Hey,” Ned said, “Don’t do that to yourself man. You’re a superhero, not a psychic. There was no way you could have known.” But Ned must have known Peter had some responsibility. He should’ve insisted on walking Melissa home. He should have made sure she was in the clear. Just because he caught one bad guy didn’t mean she was safe from any more. 

Peter should have been better.

He stayed quiet as he scrolled to the top of the article. THE KING STRIKES AGAIN bold letters read. 

“They’re calling him the King?” He muttered, angry. How dare the media give him such a powerful, egotistical name? Haven’t they seen Criminal Minds, or literally any other police procedural? Giving killers nicknames only feed into their narcissism. No doubt a name like “The King” is going to fuel the fires. 

And yet they couldn’t give Melissa’s name? 

MJ tilted her head. “Media is an emotionless machine that gives praise to undeserving people if they’re flashy enough to get viewers. Another Jane Doe hooker isn’t really news, but a serial killer is.” She hummed in her own sympathetic way. “I’m sorry, Peter, but we can’t change how society treats poverty.” 

The name is kind of poetic in a way, Peter supposes. Kings have never been on the right side of history, ruling over sniveling peasants who can’t fight back with a seemingly omniscient presence. Smiting those he sees as an enemy of the state. Instead of knights or guards, this man is protected by the dark of night. 

MJ pushes her salad to the side when the bell rings. “You guys have your permission slips signed? They’re due today.” The cafeteria emptied out quickly and Ned zipped open his backpack to put his laptop away. "Hey man, if you ever want to talk, you know I'm here for you, right?" He offered his best friend. Peter gave him a gentle smile, too tired to do much else except nod. "Yeah man, you know I'll always tell you what's up."

Peter passed Delmar’s Sandwich shop after school that day. In the front was a stand for newspapers that showed the day’s top story. Not many people buy newspapers anymore, so it was only a short stack on the top rack followed by generic magazines. 

THE KING STRIKES AGAIN, it read again. Below that was the article about last night’s incident. It only quoted the victim as “a long time prostitute found strangled after a supposed deal gone wrong.” It goes to explain that internet theories are saying that these women had refused their services to the King and he got angry enough to kill them. Anybody smart enough would know that’s bullshit. If he wanted to have sex with these women so bad, sadly he would have forced himself on them, alive or not.

Jaw clenched, Peter took a Sharpie from his backpack and knelt below the window so Delmar couldn’t see him messing with the papers. Passerby citizens said nothing seeing a kid writing all over the front page, deciding it probably wasn’t worth it. 

Only minutes later Peter straightened himself out and walked inside the shop to get food before his patrol. 

The newspapers on the rack now were edited, changing every mentioning of “prostitute” or "sex worker" to say “Melissa” or “loving mother.” 

It wasn’t much, Peter knew, but he’ll be damned if he let that woman go down in memory as just another Jane Doe, as if she were undeserving of any other fate than her own. 

Now armed with a sandwich and a phone pressed to his ear calling Happy Hogan, Peter stopped at a vending machine to buy an energy drink. Happy answered his phone as the last of his quarters dropped in the machine. 

“What’s up kid? I’m kind of busy here.” Happy’s grumpy voice was a bit refreshing for him. Ever since the incident with the Vulture, Happy made it a point to answer Peter whenever he could as to avoid another building falling on him or something. 

“Hey Happy. Look, I was wondering if Mr. Stark has any free time this week. There’s something I want to talk to him about.” Determination was set on his face, and Peter knew it was going to be a long night for him as he cracked open a Monster can. 

He was set to overthrow the King.

**Author's Note:**

> Yell at me on Tumblr @ TeasTakingOver


End file.
